


Three Little Words on the Strings

by RosVailintin



Series: On se reverra, là où rien n'est plus rien. [3]
Category: Mozart l'Opéra Rock - Mozart/Baguian & Guirao
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, M/M, Out of Character, POV Antonio Salieri
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 04:35:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11821347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosVailintin/pseuds/RosVailintin
Summary: The pint of Kaiser is always reserved. Antonio insists that it's just a habit, not for Wolfgang. Wolfgang...has left.





	Three Little Words on the Strings

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Trois mot sur les cordes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11821344) by [RosVailintin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosVailintin/pseuds/RosVailintin). 



> Costa's mocha the day before was too sweet so I decided to write this sweet little thing! (Well there's no logic.)  
> Not all (or not at all) historical or canonical. Mozart is a poor music student and Salieri is a bartender in the pub (I meant bistrot which is actually something between a pub, a café and a restaurant) that Mozart frequents. Mikelangelo Loconte as Mozart, Florent Mothe as Salieri (because I haven't watched the version with Laurent Bàn).  
> Probably influenced by _Amadeus_? Lucian Msamati's Salieri was too good!  
>  The French title is 'Trois mot sur les cordes' which came from '4 Mots sur un piano' by Patrick Fiori.  
> I own nothing of the opera.  
> Btw Kaiser is a kind of Austrian beer.  
> Here we go.

If I die young, bury me in satin, lay me down on a bed of roses, sink me in the river at dawn, send me away with the words of a love song.

\- The Band Perry·If I Die Young

* * *

'As usual?'

The young man nods.

Antonio Salieri places a pint of Kaiser on the bar, frowning.

'Cheers.'

Antonio stays in front of him. 'Wolfgang?' Finally, he calls with caution. A bartender is not supposed to ask about his customer's personal life, but this time, he is sure that something isn't going right. It's too obvious - Normally, when he asks 'as usual', the energetic student will answer with a loud 'yes' followed by enthusiastic paragraphs about music, art, cuisine, or anecdotes, anything he comes up with. This week, Antonio has already noticed that he talked less, but he thought the little boy was only in a bad mood. 'What happened?' He's not going to say some bullshit like 'are you okay'.

Wolfgang gives him a glance. These amber eyes always full of life are now dull.

For an instant, Antonio asks himself, Why would Wolfgang tell him? He's no more than a bartender that he sees every day, who is even jealous of the 19-year-old boy's talent - Antonio Salieri always has some resentment with the unfairness of fate. When he was at Wolfgang's age, he was also a music student. 'The gifted', 'the next master', that's how he was referred to. And then? And then, there was the new generation. Their works were distributed in the streets, shared among people, played in concerts, and he with his classical music ended up in textbooks - an euphemistic way of saying 'pretty much forgotten by the public'. Well, 'jealous' is not the right word after all; actually, he doesn't quite understand the feelings he has for Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.

'You promise me you won't get angry?' The boy says with an earnest look.

Sorry what? 'Why will I get angry?' Antonio pulls a brief smile, 'Tell me if you'd like to, what happened?'

Wolfgang inhales deeply, 'Dear Mister Salieri,' he announces in a serious voice, 'I will leave Vienna tomorrow, and I regret to tell you that this may be the last time we see each other.' He finishes quickly without a break, and turns away from Antonio's gaze.

Antonio stops himself from asking why. It's enough that Wolfgang 'regrets' to tell him, and he should be happy that the future genius thinks of him. People come and go; is there anything more ordinary than this in a pub? What's the problem? Wolfgang's absence only means that there will be much less noises here, that he will not hear the piano at midnight, that there will be no one showing him his new works - those masterpieces. That's all. It doesn't matter, does it?

Until Wolfgang leaves, they haven't spoken a word or exchanged a look.

 

Of course, Antonio Salieri is not like the fools on screen; he does not become absentminded without the boy here. It's been two years exact since Wolfgang was gone. There are new regulars, and some of them are quite nice. But he knows that it's impossible to forget Wolfgang, that no one can take his place. The sheet music is kept in a box with a lock; the edges of the paper have become yellow. Every night before bed, he takes out the violin and plays a movement. In fact, he doesn't even need the sheet music; they're all in his head. His neighbours love his performances, and some day, one of them asked, 'Whose music are you playing?'

'Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.' His answer has never changed.

Just beside the bar, stands the piano that Wolfgang has played. It was the first time he entered this pub and the second day he arrived in Vienna. His music was such a hit that the next day, everyone was talking about it. As for Antonio, one part of him hated this kid who outdid him with one shot, while the other part admired him from the bottom of his heart. Wolfgang didn't know at all. Never has Antonio either belittled him or praised him. When he was given new sheet music, he accepted with a nod and a 'thank you'. For several times, Wolfgang asked, 'Why do you always say nothing but "thank you"? What do you think of it? Do you even have just one opinion, even it's that you don't like it?' His eyes were shining as if they were teary, his dark hair trembling as he spoke; a few buttons of his worn shirt were undone, the fair skin and the clavicles revealed. Antonio almost said, 'Yes, I do, I like it.'

'Salieri!' Abruptly, the door is opened, and the man rushing to him successfully catches the attention of the whole room.

'Jeez, Rosenberg!' Antonio sighs, 'Is there a fire?' Honestly, he could have complained about his friend's clothes and makeup that are very, um, Rosenberg-y.

'You will not believe it,' he says mysteriously, arms waving in the air in all directions, 'it's Mozart!'

The moment Antonio hears this name, a wave of heat rises from his chest like a tornado all the way to his head, and for nearly five seconds, his overheated brain isn't working. Mozart? 'Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart?'

'Exactly!' Rosenberg goes on in his normal voice - Thank God! - but Antonio isn't really listening. He speaks of a concert, and that's all he pays attention to.

A concert? Mozart's concert? This day has eventually fallen?

'Are you going?'

'I...Which day?'

'You didn't listen to me!' Rosenberg shakes his head, 'Next Friday, seven o'clock in the evening, at the Golden Hall!'

Wolfgang...He is no longer the boy who couldn't afford more than a little one-room apartment, three chicken sandwiches and a pint of Kaiser every evening during happy hour. Mozart has become a true musician who will hold his own concert in the Golden Hall of Vienna, and he? The bartender who plays the violin at night, who has a priceless collection of Mozart's sheet music, who makes 'the best martinis' around the place. Funnily though, Wolfgang has never tasted his martinis.

'Are you going?' Oh, Rosenberg is still there.

'Yes, I'm going.'

 

Waiting for the concert day to come is a torture; it's only 10 days, but feels like forever. Antonio can't stop asking himself, Why did he say 'yes'? But this time, it's really not because of those little feelings he has for Wolfgang; he works until midnight from Tuesday to Saturday, and 'the King of Martini' cannot leave early, that's it. Still, it would be a lie to say that he's not nervous. What's weird and slightly stupid is that - like a girl in middle school who has a crush on a boy, he thinks - as the days go by, the anxiety grows as if it was him who would hold a concert. Two years. So much could happen in two years.

However, Rosenberg is looking forward to it. 'I can't wait no more!' So he goes.

Antonio simply ignores him.

 

The cool breeze of the night caresses Antonio's face. He has deliberately chosen an out-of-the-way alley, avoiding the crowd. There's still about three hours to midnight, and he is returning to the pub.

The concert was like a dream, a beautiful dream that was forgotten the moment of waking up. He doesn't count how many passers-by he has bumped into; his brain was emptied once the first note came out, and he dedicated all of him to Mozart's music. No one but Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart could create works like those, and the height they have marked is a level that he, Antonio Salieri, as well as all others, can never reach. He's jealous, he's furious, he's fearful, and he is aware that he's only qualified to be awed, and to admire genuinely this genius and his music. Yet he wishes to be able to become Mozart's rival, to be able to know every side of him, to be able to make the legendary being try hard for him and only him.

The martinis tonight are a bit stronger.

Probably because of the concert, there isn't that much a crowd in the pub. The concert, without surprise, is one of the most discussed topic. He listens with a smile, but when people talk about it with him or describe it to him, he never says a word.

Midnight. Antonio is almost ready for the closing.

The bell on the door rings.

'Sorry, but not tonight.' He doesn't look up, 'We're closed.'

'I didn't see you at the concert.'

This voice, this tone, this way of blaming him, this perfume, this sound of footsteps.

He stares at him without a word. No word sounds right. Two years. The boy has grown up, the outline of his visage clearer, and his clothes are no longer oversized and worn. But in these amber eyes, the same light remains.

They are fixing on him.

'I was there, Wolfgang.' Their should be better responses.

'You still call me Wolfgang!' The young musician jumps and clings to Antonio, kissing him passionately on the cheek, 'So can we leave the honorifics out now? Antonio?'

When Antonio hears his name, he feels...excited. He sighs.

'As usual?' Says Wolfgang, and it's not really a question.

Antonio has really reserved a pint of Kaiser for Wolfgang. It's just a habit. But he answers, 'Would you - You don't want to try a martini?'

'Hmm...' Wolfgang rests his head on his hands, and considers for at least ten seconds. In the end, he decides, 'Why not?'

The boy observes how he mixes all kinds of liquid together, and goes on, 'Do you sill play the violin, Antonio?'

He calls him by first name for too many times, Antonio thinks, and he's...too close. He feels hot. 'Uh, yes, of course.' After a short pause, he adds, 'And I kept your sheet music.'

Without a sign, Wolfgang's soft lips collide with his.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> This English version is actually written almost at the same time with the French one lol. I'll translate the work to Chinese directly from French.  
> And...the ending could be a sad one? (No!)


End file.
